Something tightened, almost imperceptibly, in Mr Hartley’s expression.
“In my experience, Miss Ashwood, people who behave as Lady Ashwood has behaved seldom do so only once. If she exploited you, she has likely exploited others. If she misrepresented your father’s affairs, there will be records. If she claimed generosity while using you as unpaid labour—”He paused. “The truth has a way of surfacing, given time and inquiry.”
He departed, leaving Cecilia and Sebastian alone in the study.
“He will find something,” Sebastian said quietly. “Hartley does not offer hope unless he is certain of his ground.”
“And if he does?” Cecilia asked softly. “What then?”
“Then we use it. We expose her, and ensure no one gives credence to her lies again.”
“That sounds like revenge.”
“It sounds like justice.” He took her hand. “There is a difference.”
She considered this. Was there truly a difference? Or was justice merely revenge dressed in respectable language?
“I do not wish to become like her,” she said at last. “Hard, bitter—striking back simply because I can.”
“You could never be like her. The very fact that you fear it proves as much.” His fingers tightened gently around hers. “There is nothing wrong in protecting yourself. Nothing wrong in allowing the truth to stand. Lady Ashwood has built her narrative upon lies—about you, your character, your past. Revealing the truth is not vengeance. It is correction.”
“And if that correction ruins her?”
“Then her ruin will be of her own making. We will merely refuse to help her conceal it.” He paused. “But we will act with care—with thought, not anger. We will protect your name, and our future.”
Cecilia nodded slowly. She was not entirely convinced—but she trusted him.
“Let us wait for Mr Hartley’s findings,” she said. “Then we shall decide.”
“A sensible course, I suppose.”
***
The days of waiting were difficult.
Cecilia threw herself into learning the rhythms of Ashworth Hall—the routines, the ledgers, the thousand small mechanisms that allowed such a great household to function. She met daily with Mrs Bennett, discussed expenditures, reviewed plans. Work steadied her hands when thought would not.
But at night, when the house grew quiet, the fears returned. What if Mr Hartley found nothing? What if Lady Ashwood’s lies had already sunk too deep? What if society chose the comfortable story over the truthful one?
She knew Sebastian’s rank would shield her from true disaster. A duke’s wife might be whispered about—but she would still be received. Yet the thought of stepping into society already tainted, already doubted—
Her stomach twisted.
She was not afraid for herself. She had survived worse than whispers. She was afraid for Sebastian—for the cost he might bear for choosing her.
“You are brooding again.”
Sebastian’s voice broke into her thoughts. She looked up to see him in the doorway of the morning room, amusement and concern mingled in his expression.
“I am thinking,” she said.
“There is often very little difference.” He joined her, taking the chair beside hers. “What occupies your thoughts?”
“What if this never fades? The suspicion. The whispers. What if people always wonder?”
“Then we shall ignore them. We will build our life, and eventually society will tire and find a new scandal to devour.” He took her hand. “Do not borrow misfortune, Cecilia. We do not yet know what Hartley will discover.”
“I know. But I cannot help imagining the worst.”
